


The Noise, the Book, and the Bullet

by skyofblue_seaofgreen



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: John Lennon lives AU, Paul is having a h a r d time, Please give me comments, i need them, they’re trying to make up they’re trying their best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:35:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22274170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyofblue_seaofgreen/pseuds/skyofblue_seaofgreen
Summary: After John Lennon survives being shot, Paul races over to New York City to visit him. As memories and regrets attack him from all sides, he knows he needs to repair the past to have a better future.
Relationships: George Harrison & John Lennon & Paul McCartney & Ringo Starr, John Lennon & Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Yoko Ono
Comments: 10
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

If you thought about it, in a way it really was John’s fault.

Not entirely, however. The majority of the blame was entirely (and rightfully) on the lunatic who decided to open fire on a music superstar and held his mental illness responsible for the crime. However, there was just a tiny piece of this blame on John Lennon. Not all of it, again, but some. Like the last chocolate in a trail mix bag, it was hard to find, but if you dug around for it you’d start to realize it was there.

John had always been outspoken. He was a bit of an extrovert, either that or he just voiced his opinions very strongly. He’d always been like that, even as a child (like when he and Aunt Mimi went to see Puss & Boots in the theater and he said very loudly that he shared the heroic cat’s wellingtons). As he got older and started to see more of the world’s problems, he didn’t mind telling everyone what he thought about them.

His worst incident with this matter was the whole “Jesus” controversy. He didn’t control himself in time, and when the questionable comment came out of his mouth, it didn’t take him long to realize that it was a mistake. It was awful. People burned their records in the street, and John had to watch and hear about all of their music go up in a dastardly fire. There were more consequences to this remark, and even though John attempted to apologize multiple times, even though he knew it wasn’t going to get him anywhere.

Most people forgot about it in time, focusing on other things like the infamous “Paul is dead” theory and the drama of the breakup, but some people still didn’t forget the statement that had caused thousands to stop listening to the Beatles. Most people just turned away from the band and threatened to do other, worse things to them. But nobody actually did it. 

Well, except Mark David Chapman, obviously.

So it really was John’s fault, Paul McCartney thought as he stared out the frosty window of his cab. It was December 10th, 1980, and it had taken two whole days for the news of John’s horrible fate to reach him. He was frustrated, horrified, furious, and distraught. His emotions swirled together like a whirlwind circling around his head. He was mostly relieved, though; John had survived. Three bullets to the back and he had survived. 

That was why Paul was going to the nearest airport as soon as he could, trying to wipe away bitter tears in time for his flight to take off. He had only gotten the news last night, but he didn’t even have to think about booking tickets to New York and going over as fast as he could. He’d packed a bag, said a shaky goodbye to Linda and the kids, and started driving to the airport in the back of a cab, being sure to grab three packs of tissues before he left. After the extensive amount of sobbing he’d done the whole previous night, he was prepared for another wave of devastated tears to come on. 

His hands started to shake as more thoughts consumed his head. It had been cold when John had been shot. He was going back to his apartment to say goodnight to Sean before going out to dinner with Yoko. Chapman had yelled his name, he’d turned, and that was when the bullets came. Chapman had missed the last two, but three shattered his left side and sent him to the ground. He had just made it to the hospital (they didn’t even wait for an ambulance) in time for the medical crew to help him, and he was alive there right now.

How must have John felt? Paul thought as he dug his thumbnail into his palm. A white circle appeared where he was pressing, and when he released his finger, there was a curved red mark where it had been. He must have been so scared...and Yoko? He’d never really liked her that much, but even he could understand how she’d feel if Linda had been nearly murdered.

“We’re almost here.” the cabbie told him, and Paul felt fear go through him like a bolt of lightning. Paul just nodded shakily; his voice would be way too gravely to be understandable. He grabbed his trunk handle and balanced it on his bouncing knee, ignoring the repeating clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk inside. Heaving a sigh, he tried to calm down his racing heart by grabbing his sweater and squeezing it. It didn’t work.

Finally, after facing a little snow, the cab pulled up at the airport. The driver waved Paul goodbye with a smile (blissfully unaware of how much emotional pain he was currently in), and as Paul shut the door, he drove off, his roof powdered with snow and frosted with early December ice.

As Paul made his way through the usual security, he found his levels of anxiety rising. It was obvious when his hands shook to grab his shoes out of the bin and when his voice wavered as he ordered a bagel for the plane ride. He finally got relief when he slumped down in a slightly uncomfortable chair, let out a deep sigh, and rubbed his temples.

He absentmindedly broke pieces off of his everything bagel, trying to warm up his hands as a buzzing noise came over the gate speaker. “Flight 90840, boarding now. Flight 90840, boarding now.” 

Paul stood up, stuffing the remainder of his bagel into the paper bag it came with, and quickly went over to the boarding check-in desk. He flashed the flight attendant his ticket (she marveled at his name for a moment before letting him on) and wordlessly made his way onto the jet bridge and waited in line. He wondered if Linda and the kids were getting on fine. He could see them making pancakes in the kitchen as a light-hearted distraction from John’s situation. He smiled at the thought of his family as he followed the other people on the flight into the plane.

First class seating often got him attention from the other passengers, but having a row to himself he moved to the seat closest to the window, stacking the complimentary pillows on top of each other next to him. He knew it looked pretentious and show-offish, but he really wasn’t in the mood for human interaction. He leaned back in his chair and glanced out the small, circular window. The sun was just barely rising over the horizon. Rich pink and orange clouds greeted it, and the pale moon was fading away in the morning blue sky.

After a couple minutes, the plane was in the air, and Paul could relax. He resumed picking apart his everything bagel, avoiding the poppy seeds. His mind was swarmed with anxious thoughts. What time would he make it to New York? Would he find a cab? Would the hospital even let him in? Would John be awake? What if he wasn’t? What if...Paul was too late? What if John…

...never woke up again?

Suddenly, Paul let out a whimper, making the two passengers sitting in the row across from him glance up. Paul immediately whirled his head around to face the window, staring at the puffy white clouds until they grew blurry with tears. He cursed himself and shoved his hand into his pocket, digging around for some tissues. Fingers numb and cold as he undid the wrapping on the new pack, he pressed the first, clean tissue to his eyes and let out a watery sniff.

You have to pull yourself together, McCartney, he thought. He could nearly feel all eyes on him, judging him or pitying him. He didn’t like the attention, not then. He drummed his fingers on the tiny windowsill, balling up the tissue and setting it aside for inevitable future use.

He leaned back in his chair, trying to distract himself. He tried to think positive: if all went according to his hopes, John would be awake, healthy, and happy to see him. He would go home in a few weeks’ time and everything would be fine. John and Paul would continue to have weekly phone conversations, reminiscing about past times and keeping each other updated, just like friends should.

Paul smiled and closed his teary eyes. As John had gotten older, he’d become more sentimental. Especially now that Sean was in the picture. The man was so in love with his wife and his son that it would be more than easy for him to block out everything else in his life. Paul’s brow furrowed. He’d already done it before. All too sharp, memories of the harsh breakup filled his head. It was a combination of angry faces, cigarettes and beer bottles, hoarse voices, and a lot of tears. Paul could see very clearly John leaving the studio for the last time, Yoko pressed into his hip like a flower wrapping around a branch. John didn’t even turn to look at Paul, he didn’t even turn to look－

No, I can’t think about that, Paul thought, the anger and pain sizzling away. He’d rather remember the better times, the rowdy times, the good times. Just then, he was back in the 60’s: singing his voice out on stage, bobbing his head to the beat of their newest hit, relishing in the wave of girls’ screams, feeling the bright lights on his burning skin and the ringing in his ears of all the noise. That good noise. The noise that made him never want to hear anything else again. His noise. Their noise.

Paul opened his eyes and leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the back of the seat in front of him and picking at his bottom lip. Those memories...the ones that he’d just been immersed in...he wanted to think about that when he remembered the Beatles. Not the breakup. Not the drama. He glanced up at the blue leather of the airplane seats. Going back to John was the perfect chance to reconcile with him properly. George and Ringo, too. 

God, he hadn’t even thought about them. Were they coming to New York? They had to be. Even George, who’d been on pretty iffy terms with the three, would have to come. Paul tried to push down the swelling of anger that came up when he thought about George. He hadn’t even tried to reach out to John, Paul, or Ringo, from what he’d heard. George had even left them out of his autobiography, even though they were what most of his fame had been supported by. Paul let out a silent sigh when he thought about it. John had been rightfully pissed when he hadn’t been part of it. Paul could hear the thick anger in his voice, even through the phone speaker.

Paul glanced out the window again. Even though he was mad at Geo, too, he had to forgive him. If he didn’t want their next meetup to turn out anything like the breakup, then he’d have to be the bigger person and step up to the plate. Or else… he’d be in a worse state than he was in now.

And that, Paul thought with a tiny smile, would be pretty hard to accomplish.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to NYC!

When the plane finally touched down at John F. Kennedy International Airport, Paul was so nervous he felt like his heart could be heard throughout the whole first class cabin. He packed his tissues in his pocket, put his bagel bag and used Kleenex in the trash on the way out, and hurried swiftly through the jet bridge, ignoring the astounded passerby in the airport as he went to find the baggage claim.

He bounced and rocked on his heels as he checked the sign, double-checking and triple-checking just to be sure. Paul couldn’t wait to see John and he was dreading it. His earlier emotions had mixed together into a solid jawbreaker, resting at the pit of his stomach and refusing to move. As he heaved his suitcase from the conveyor belt, Paul sighed and checked his watch; it was only 10:30.

Deciding to stall, he wandered around the airport for a little bit, looking around in the little shops as the sales clerks gawked at him from behind their desks. He purchased some gifts for the Lennons: a special-edition airport toy train for Sean, a small orchid for Yoko, and (after a lot of debating) a bag of coffee beans and chocolate for John. Then, taking some more time just for himself, he bought a cup of coffee, sipped it for a little bit as he watched people hurry by.

One face stood out to Paul in the mixture of averting eyes and furrowed brows: someone with a round face, sad, baby blue eyes, semi-long, curly chocolate hair, and a stubble (which meant he obviously hadn’t shaved in a few days). It took him a bit of close examination, but he eventually identified him.

“Ringo?”

Ringo turned, stunned, at Paul’s words. His eyes locked with Paul’s, and all the apparent tension in his shoulders released as the two immediately clashed in a massive bear hug. “How’d we get here at the same time?” Paul said, his voice muffled as he buried his face in Ringo’s shoulder.

Ringo pulled him back, searching his eyes for a moment before hugging him again. Another wave of nostalgia rushed over Paul’s head, and he couldn’t stop the next tears from coming; they stung hot and wet on his face and he embraced it. He hadn’t seen Ringo in so long and it felt so good to be with him again. Evidently Ringo was feeling the same, because before long Paul’s sweater was stained with his tears.

“D’you know where George is?” Paul asked, releasing Ringo from his grip.

“Last time I checked he was flyin’ in tomorrow,” Ringo replied. “It’s interesting. Even he would be here for John.” He stared at Paul for a minute. “I’m so sorry about John…”  
“What do you have to be sorry about?” Paul said. “It hurts you just as much as me.”

Ringo’s face spread into a shaky smile. “What’re the shopping bags for?” he asked, pointing to the white plastic bags that were clenched in Paul’s hand. After Paul had explained, they both sat down for another cup of coffee to keep them energized for the day.

“I ‘eard about it before you, then,” Ringo said, wiping the light brown stain from his upper lip. “It was on the television. I decided right then that I needed to come over.” He drummed his fingers on the table and twisted a ring around his finger. “It took me a while to find a flight, though.”

Paul nodded in understanding. “God, it’s ‘orrible, isn’t it?” he sighed, shaking his head. “What drives that in somebody? To kill another human being? Especially someone like John?” Given, John could be awful sometimes, but Paul couldn’t imagine thinking about murdering someone.

“I remember thinkin’ that John’s ‘activism’ was annoying,” Ringo said with a smile. “But ‘e was right in a way.” He checked his watch. “I should be gettin’ to the ‘otel now. You got a room?”

Paul silently cursed himself. He hadn’t even thought about that. “N-no.”

Ringo laughed as he got up from the table. “Maybe we can find a way to get you in mine, then. C’mon, Macca.” Paul warmed at his old nickname and got up as well, throwing his and Ringo’s coffee cups away. He was feeling just a small bit happier; now that he was with someone that understood him and that really loved him like a brother. As they both left the airport and stepped out into the freezing New York air, Paul felt more comfortable with the whole premise of his situation.

Ringo (ever the smart one) had gotten a cab, and he graciously allowed Paul to ride with him to his hotel. They rode along silently, each lighting a cigarette and blowing absentmindedly into the paper sticks, watching as smoke billowed up like gray ribbons in the air. Paul let himself close his eyes for a moment, breathing in the air and letting the horrible smell sting his nose. More memories flowed into his head like a steady stream.

He was in the park in Liverpool; they’d just been in an uncomfortable bar and John had been sick so they left. He’d puked his guts out in the park and now they were sitting on an ice cold park bench, having a small smoke. It was oddly warm for Liverpool, and it felt good.

“Ya see that star?” John said, and Paul turned. John’s hazel-green eyes were staring up at the sky, and Paul followed his gaze. There was a star up there, brighter than all the others that were scattered behind it.

“Yeah,” Paul nodded, wondering if John was about to be philosophical or crudely hilarious.

“It’s called Mary Julia,” John responded, completely serious. “It was dedicated to me when I was little. And now it’s your star, too. Every time you look up and you see that star, think of me, alright?”

Paul laughed a little bit, uncomfortable. John didn’t usually talk about his mom－not to mention even dare speak of Paul’s－but this time he was either severely drunk or taking the biggest risk of his life.

“I’m serious,” John retorted, his eyes bright and round in the white moonlight.

Paul’s adrenalin from getting John out of the bar was wearing off. “Alright,” he said, crossing his legs and pressing his elbows on the side of his knees. “I will.” He glanced back up at Mary Julia and watched it glimmer for a little while. The smoke was swirling in the air like a bird, the same smell. Paul hadn’t thought about that star in so long...why hadn’t he thought about it?

He opened his eyes again, immediately feeling the cold air on his face. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d probably been sobbing this whole time, which was probably to be expected now. They were at the hotel, though, so he didn’t have to be embarrassed in front of the cab driver anymore.

The hotel was pretty simple for Ringo’s standards. Drowning in money, the drummer usually liked to book and buy extra extravagant things. It wasn’t that he liked to show off, it was just what he did that felt natural to him. As they rode up in the plain black elevator, Paul had a feeling that even Ringo was feeling lost right then.

“I know it’s not the usual.” Ringo said, in fact, as he set his bag on the hotel floor and fell onto one of the neat, white-sheeted beds. Paul had to keep himself from doing the same, but his efforts were wasted as he shoved his face into one of the extremely comfortable mushy pillows. His muscles relaxed into the mattress of the bed and he was painfully aware of how disgusting he felt.

“Maybe we can see John, then?” Ringo groaned from his pillow, so it sounded more like a bunch of drawn out muffles and a moan. Paul nodded, pressing his palms into the bed and pushing his head up. He turned around on the bed and kicked his shoes off, staring at the white glowing curtains. He didn’t know if he wanted to see John at this point, but knowing himself all too well, he’d rush so fast to the hospital that he’d hardly have time to put on decent clothes.

“Doubt he’ll be awake, but sure,” Paul replied, heaving himself up off the bed and clicked open his trunk. His clothes were a rainbow heap－he hadn’t even bothered to fold them this morning, something he was severely regretting－but he could find some kind of brush to comb out his ruffled, messy hair. If he was going to see John, he could at least look nice.

As Ringo was getting himself ready, Paul pushed back the curtains a little bit. He surveyed the skyline for anything familiar to him, but nothing sparked his interest at all. He knew the Dakota was around there, though－the building where John had been shot－so he snapped the curtains together to avoid finding it.

“Where’s the hospital again, Ritchie?” Paul asked. In a way, he wanted to get this over with. It sounded rude, and it felt rude, and Paul knew it. He sighed and scratched the back of his neck. He also knew that in the heat of the moment when he was actually with John, he would want to stay there forever. He’d never want to leave, most likely.

“Roosevelt,” was Ringo’s reply from the bathroom. Awfully vague, but Paul could manage.

“D’you mind if I go before you?”

Ringo’s head came from around the corner. “Why?”

“Never mind,” Paul shook his head, putting his brush in his trunk and closing it. Ringo stepped out of the bathroom and grabbed a jacket; Paul felt that his sweater would probably be fine.

They left the hotel and hopped into a cab. Paul sighed and sank into the black leather of the seats, staring out the window. There was a chance that he wouldn’t be able to see John. Was he relieved about that, or disappointed? He didn’t know.

The cab stopped next to an overbearingly white building. Crowds of people were swarming outside, probably for John. A cheer rippled across the crowd as Paul and Ringo stepped out of the car. A few people tried to clamber over the metal gate keeping them inside, but police officers nearly shoved them back inside the sea of heads and coats. Paul stared up at the building. Identical, thin windows lined the front wall in rows of six. A few had blue curtains drawn but some were embracing the New York view. Paul’s shoes felt glued to the ground. Was he really here…? Did John really get shot, or was he dreaming…?

“C’mon, Macca,” Ringo said, shaking him out of his thoughts. The two shuffled into the hospital, and as Ringo spoke to the woman at the front desk, Paul stared around the lobby. Some patients were staring in shock at the crowd outside, and some were trying to distract themselves from the yelling and distraught singing of John’s songs by reading a thin magazine or listening to music on a Walkman.

Ringo flashed the woman his driver’s license and so did Paul, and they proceeded to the next elevator. It sped up the floors too quickly, and came to a stop too quickly. Ringo led Paul down the hallway too quickly and the doors became a blur and they stopped at one door and Ringo talked to a nurse and Paul’s hand was on the doorknob and he turned it and stepped inside all too quickly and－

There he was.

Everything seemed to slow down like a carousel. Each speck of dust in the sunlight seemed to dance and spin all on its own. The long, black handles on the clock ticked ever so slightly, one second after the next. Slowly, gently, Paul turned his head to look at John: his bandmate, his best friend, his co-worker, his writing partner, his...brother.

He looked horrible. His fragile body sunk into a massive pillow, hooked up to an IV and an oxygen tube. There were gentle movements that gave any sign that John was alive, mostly the rise and fall of his chest to show that he was at least breathing. His shoulder－where he’d been shot－was wrapped up and bandaged, and some scratches on his face had been cleaned off.

Paul couldn’t even see the ghost of John in this man. Not even a whim. Why couldn’t he see it? Why couldn’t he see him?! Where was he?!

And that was when he broke.

He managed to catch himself in time, crashing into a chair as he exploded in tears. Ringo rushed in from the hallway, worried as he supported Paul enough for him to remain sitting in the chair and not crumple to the floor like a piece of paper. He’d never seen John look like that before. Ringo pulled Paul’s head into his shoulder, letting him bawl his eyes out and drench his shirt. Paul wanted to apologize, but he just couldn’t do it.

“It’s alright, Macca,” Ringo whispered to him, rubbing his hand on the back of Paul’s hand. “John’s alive, and he’ll get better.”

Paul shook his head. “N-not...necessarily…”

Ringo nodded. “John has always been a fighter.” he said, turning to look at John, “He’ll win the fight this time, just like he always does.” He let Paul go and hugged him one more time. “You can talk to him now, and he’ll listen. Even if he...doesn’t really...well, you know.”

Paul nodded, trying to recover from his mental breakdown. He sniffed as Ringo gently shut the door behind him. Now he was alone with John and the ticking of the clock.

He really tried to stop crying, he really did. But every time he even looked at John he’d feel that same sense of horror and depression and a new set of tears would come streaming out. And he knew that he was probably disturbing John’s sleep, but again, he couldn’t stop crying－

And then he was back. Like many times before, all of his depression and distress had transported him back in time, to a memory that had faded away but was now back in intricate detail. Paul closed his eyes to take it in: he and John were in a hotel room, horribly tired after a show and drinking on their seperate beds. They were relishing the feeling of being together.

“Paul?” John said, taking a massive sip from his beer bottle. Paul wanted to laugh at how some dribbled onto his pristine white shirt－something Brian would probably ridicule－and dripped down to the middle button.

“Yeah?” Paul replied, staring at his own chocolate brown bottle. The blue-and-gold wrapper was soaked with the drink’s sweat.

“What’ll happen when we’re older?” John asked. “Like when we’re gray and gross and no one wants to see us in concert anymore? How will we get money for our songs?”

“I dunno, John,” Paul shrugged, staring at his bandmate. “Maybe we won’t write songs at that point.”

“What? What’re you talking about?” John laughed, genuine and sharp.

Paul shrugged again, taking another sip. “Maybe somethin’ will stop us from writing hits.” His heart started to race when he saw John glaring at him. “I mean, probably not, but…”

“Yeah, probably not.” John repeated, putting his beer on the bedside table and relaxing in the hotel bed. “As long as we’re together, you an’ me, Paulie, we’ll be writin’ hits till we’re eighty.”

And Paul really believed it. He really did. But he opened his eyes again, and his heart dropped. He was in 1980 again, staring at John nearly dead in a hospital bed. As long as we’re together, you an’ me, Paulie, we’ll be writing hits till we’re eighty.

Paul got up, smoothing out his sweater and pushing back his hair. Wandering over to John’s bedside, he took a minute to stare at his friend. His head snapped to the bedside table, and conviently placed there was a notepad and a flower pen. Paul took a deep breath and clenched both items in his hands. He sat in his chair again, composing himself and wiping his nose, and stared at John, still asleep. “Alright, Johnny...we’re gonna write a hit. Where do we start?”


	3. Chapter 3

“Hey, George.”

Paul laid back in his hotel bed, tapping the end of his cigarette with one finger. He glanced at Ringo, who was on the phone with most likely George. It was 4:00 in the afternoon, and they’d just left the hospital around an hour ago. Ringo looked exhausted as he kept his eyes glued to the television. It was playing some kind of sitcom that was trying way too hard to be funny, and Paul hadn’t laughed yet, so he guessed it wasn’t succeeding.

“Yeah, we’re in New York.” Ringo said with a small nod. He twirled the curly telephone wire around his finger like a cliché movie protagonist, wrapping the wire around four of his fingers and stretching it out. “Got here this morning, yeah.”

“Is ‘e coming?” Paul asked, tossing the cigarette in the trash. He didn’t get as much satisfaction from them anymore; he’d probably be quitting soon. Besides, as he got older it made his lungs burn and harder for him to run.

Ringo glanced over at Paul and nodded. “He’s on his way.” He put the phone down and leaned back into his pillow. “It’ll be so awkward with John n’ his book n’ all.” 

Paul sighed. “Yeah,” he agreed. “John was pretty angry when he read tha’ book.”

“I was too.” Ringo replied. “I mean, we’re a huge part of Geo’s life, and he couldn’t even put us in his autobiography? Tha’ doesn’t make much sense.” Paul knew he was especially disappointed, considering he and George became very close friends during their careers. 

“Yeah.” Paul repeated. “I just hope John doesn’t get angry at George when ‘e wakes up.” He hoped a ton of other things as well: that George didn’t get angry at John, that George didn’t leave too fast, that Paul wouldn’t have to leave too fast, that John actually woke up…

“Poor Yoko n’ Sean.” Ringo said after a long silence. “Could you imagine? Your husband...your da’ gettin’ shot right outside your house? ‘M glad Sean didn’t see it. That could scar him forever.” He shook his head. “Even though we don’ really like Yoko, you an’ me, you still feel drawn to pity, right?”

Paul glanced at the ground. “‘S more than pity for me, Ritchie,” he murmured, getting up off the bed. He opened the balcony door and stared at the skyline again, watching the sun as it disappeared behind a skyscraper, making the glass windows a rich, blood orange. Paul gazed at it for a minute, before closing his eyes and feeling the wind on his face. He was already sinking into another memory again.

He was walking into the studio early one rainy morning, his coat collar popped so he was hiding his face. He put his bass case down and immediately rushed to the bathroom, hoping he avoided anyone’s gaze. Paul skidded into the restroom and slammed the door behind him, staring into the mirror at his messed-up face.

He’d been in a moped accident two nights before; he had cut open part of his lip and chipped his tooth. Besides for the minimal amount of pain, he was okay, but he wanted to hide his face from everyone today to avoid them seeing it. He was ugly now and nobody would ever want to look at him again; especially at the fresh scar that snaked from his lip nearly to his nose and his front left tooth that was chipped diagonally. 

Paul jumped as the bathroom door opened and anxiety made his hands buzz when John walked in, looking bewildered. “Why’re you so nervous?” he asked, cocking his head as he pushed open a stall door. He didn’t go in, which made Paul frustrated as he moved his collar so it shielded his face. “Why’re you so nervous?” John repeated, this time more aggressively.

“You just scared me, is all,” Paul replied, glancing in the mirror again. 

John closed the stall door with no reply, and as he did his business, Paul debated leaving the bathroom. But that would just make John even more suspicious, he thought with a scowl. I don’t want him to look at me, though. He’ll probably laugh or just...be disappointed in me. I’ve ruined our image.

Suddenly John opened his stall door and began washing his hands. It was apparent he was taking extra long, based on the way he methodically ran the soap over his palm and scrubbed his fingernails. With no warning he stared up at Paul, eyes questionably burning a hole into his skin. 

He turned the water off. “Alright, lemme see yer face.” he said, taking Paul’s collar and shoving it down. Then he froze. 

For a moment, Paul wondered what to do. John was just looking at his injury, studying it with a stone-cold expression. Paul couldn’t take it anymore, and he jerked his head away. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, rubbing his hand on the side of his face. “I really am…”

John stayed silent for a minute. “About what?” 

Paul narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “I got myself into a moped accident and ruined my face. Now we’ll look horrible wherever we go.” he said, on the verge of tears. “You’ll be mad at me forever and I’ll look bad and...and…”

John scowled. “What the bloody ‘ell are you on about?” he asked. “Ya don’t look bad!” He gently turned Paul’s head to the mirror, forcing him to look at himself. “That scar...you can hardly see it! It’ll be plenty easy to just...grow a mustache and cover it up.”

Paul let himself laugh. “A mustache? Really?” It might not be such a bad idea.

John nodded, looking excited. “I’ll grow one too! And so ‘ill Geo and Ritchie. We can change our name to the Mustachios or somethin’ dumb like that…” He turned to glance at the door and then back at Paul. “That scar is killer, though. C’mon, let’s go show it off.”

Paul followed John out of the bathroom, taking off his coat. If John really said his scar was fine, was it true? Everything John said always sounded so right to him. What would he do when he didn’t have John? Paul shook his head. He’d never lose John...ever.

Suddenly, Paul’s eyes flitted open. That was one of his longer memories. Gently, he touched his lip. The scar was long faded away, the tooth repaired long ago. But if John could still look at him and tell him he was “killer,” he’d do anything to get that awful scar back.

“Paul?”

He turned around to look at Ringo, who was sitting up and scratching the back of his head. “George said he’d be here in a few hours. Wanna get dinner or somethin’? We can see Yoko and Sean on the way back.” he suggested. “I’ve ‘eard about those good pizza places here…”

Paul shrugged. He was feeling a little bit hungry. “Yeah, I could go for somethin’.” He hadn’t eaten since he got his everything bagel that morning. That felt like so long ago. He and Ringo grabbed their jackets and headed out into the cold, NYC evening.

It took them a little bit to find a place, and after ordering from a very nervous, very stunned waiter, they found a booth to sit in.

“So, how’s life?” Ringo asked. It would have usually been a slightly comical question, but Paul realized that he hadn’t heard from Ringo in a long time. Feeling immediately guilty for not reaching out, he came up with a short summary of his life at home and then quickly asked Ringo the same question.

“It’s good,” the drummer shrugged. “I haven’t had much song-writing creativity yet, but I’m sure that’ll get better.” His blue eyes shone in the overhead lights. “How did you and John do it? You could just...think of a song on the spot.”

Paul shrugged, shaking the ice around his glass. “Practice, I guess.” he answered. He’d never know how they did it himself, really. It was just something that came naturally to him, something that was fluent like a language. He didn’t even have to think about it: just put pen to paper and he was off. He didn’t want to tell Ringo, though, so he just shrugged it off again. “You have to get good at it.”

Ringo laughed, but it wasn’t genuine. “Alright. Well...I’ll try.”

Suddenly Paul felt the folded piece of paper in his pocket grow very heavy. He discreetly took it out of his pocket and unfolded it, looking down at his feverish blue scribbles. He’d written the song about two hours ago, with John. As Ringo was talking, Paul quietly hummed the song to himself. 

Of course, it was only two lines. 

But, Paul thought, remembering back to his early recollection with his scar, it means everything to me.


	4. Chapter 4

It was late when Paul and Ringo visited Yoko and Sean; after unsuccessfully buzzing the lobby intercom a few times, she finally answered and allowed them to come upstairs. Paul was apprehensive as the elevator slowly climbed the floors, making a monotone dinging sound whenever they got higher. He shoved his hand in his pocket, and upon feeling the battered, broken song’s paper, he felt more relieved.

Finally, the metallic silver elevator doors opened, revealing a normal-looking hallway. They scanned the room numbers until they found apartment 46. Paul knocked gently on the door.

It took a couple moments for it to open, revealing a blotchy-faced, red-eyed woman that Paul immediately identified as Yoko. The minute the two laid eyes on each other, Paul’s face crumpled and he grabbed John’s wife in a hug, Ringo joining them not long after. Paul tried not to cry along with Yoko as she sniffed into his shoulder. He’d never felt inclined to hug Yoko before, but right now they all needed it.

“Mommy?”

Yoko’s head snapped up as a little boy, not even six years old, padded into the foyer of their apartment. He had short, fluffy black hair and round, inquisitive dark brown eyes, and he was holding a soft blue blanket, looking like he’d been asleep for a while. It was around 9:00, Paul thought as he smiled at the boy.

Then he mentally smacked himself. Of course he knew who that boy was. It was Sean, John’s five-year-old son. Yoko rushed over to him and picked him up, quietly asking him why he wasn’t asleep yet. Sean just stared at Paul and Ringo, who probably looked as disheveled as they felt. “Mommy? Is that…” Sean began, his voice light like a bird’s. 

“Yes, Sean. Paul and Ringo!” Yoko bounced Sean on her hip, he smiled. “Can you say hello?”

Sean waved with a shy beam, and then he buried his face into Yoko’s shoulder. She shook her head. “I’ll go put him to bed,” she whispered. “You two make yourselves comfortable.”

Paul nodded slowly as Yoko disappeared down a dark hallway. He shrugged and ambled around, peeking around a corner to find a sort-of living room. There were a lot of papers scattered around and a half-drank mug of coffee sitting on the table. “Here?” he said to Ringo, and the other man nodded.

Paul gently set the papers and toast aside and sat on the couch, staring at his reflection in the turned-off television. He looked awful: his hair was messy, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his coat collar still had a smudge of red pizza sauce on it. Paul licked his thumb and tried to wipe it off before Yoko came in and noticed how un-prepared he was.

Soon, she came into the room and sat down in a white chair, pressing her hands over her eyes and very quietly groaning. “I just can’t believe it…” she whispered, seperating her fingers so her brown eyes shone through. “I just can’t…”

“Don’t worry, we can’t either,” Ringo replied with a sad look. “I’ll bet the press has been brutal, hasn’t it?”

Yoko nodded, picking up her coffee and holding it between her hands. She stared at the wall, lost in thought. “The doctors estimated a day or two more before John wakes up.” she said, sipping her coffee. “Are you both situated properly? Do you have a place to stay?”

“Yeah, Ringo booked a hotel a few blocks away,” Paul answered, leaning his arm on the armrest and his head on his hand. “George is flying in real soon, so we’ll all be here by tomorrow.”

“Just in time for John to wake up.” Ringo added.

Yoko gave a small smile to him, but it was soon gone. Paul took a moment to notice how crushed she looked, and he could understand. Nobody should have to go through the pain she was going through, and even though Paul and Ringo knew John a lot longer than Yoko, she still loved him with a burning passion. They loved each other with a burning passion. Paul had known ever since he brought her into the studio that one evening.

It was just starting to get dark out, and they were almost done with the double-track for their newest album, a song that George had written. Paul thought it wasn’t half-bad, so he was willing to stay late to finish it because George had an appointment somewhere. He hadn’t been prepared for John to walk in with this woman－who he had introduced as Yoko Ono a few days ago－and show her off to everyone like she was a prize he had won.

Paul tried to ignore John to the best of his abilities as Yoko paraded around him everywhere, but as he scribbled down some notes for George’s double-track, he couldn’t ignore the pulsing jealousy he was starting to feel. Twisting his face into an involuntary scowl, Paul pressed the pen tip so hard on the paper that blotches of ink were starting to appear.

“Alright, John, we’re tryin’ to work somethin’ ‘ere!” he growled, suddenly aware of his own aggression. John looked bewildered for a moment before shrugging. 

“We’re not tryin’ to distract you.” he said. “I was just comin’ in here to show Yoko the place.” Meanwhile the woman’s head was tilted upward as she gazed around the studio in awe.

“Well, maybe you could be a little quieter then?” Paul suggested. 

John sighed and rested his fist on the piano. “Alright, alright,” he said. “Don’t get all ‘ostile on me, Macca.” He jokingly stuck his tongue out at Paul, and the younger man felt his face grow hot with embarrassment. He whirled his head around and tried to go back to what he was doing, but as he listened to Yoko and John croon to each other, he couldn’t hold back his raging jealousy. He and John’s bond was so much stronger than that. Why was somebody trying to break it?!

He snapped his head up at John, his black hair falling into his face. He brushed it away, flustered and irritated. Dear god, why was John’s relationship making him so antsy? He bit his tongue and set his pen down, nodding to George Martin a little bit away. “I’m going to go,” he said, voice lower and more belligerent that he’d intended. John gave him a small wave as he left, but Paul couldn’t find a reason why he should wave back.

Now, Paul thought, blinking away tears, he wished he’d waved goodbye. Because now he didn’t have the chance.

George pulled his suitcase into the already-cramped room, his tangled and messy dark brown hair waving in front of his face as he laughed half-heartedly. “Can’t get it through…” he said, lifting up the back of the suitcase and pulling it in the other way. “There we are.”

Paul watched as George surveyed the messy hotel room, looking oddly energized. He knew George would probably want to see John later, but this time Paul would be prepared because he’d already seen John before, so he wouldn’t have a breakdown. Probably. Hopefully.

It wasn’t too awkward for the most part. Nobody was arguing, at least. Paul felt good enough to joke around with George, talking about their school days or things like that. Everything was calm until George asked the question: “Have you seen John yet, then?”

“Yeah, we ‘ave,” Ringo replied, glancing at Paul. “Yesterday.”

George glanced at the floor. “Ah.”

“D’you want to see ‘im?” Ringo asked, looking intently at George. Paul itched to change the subject, but he knew it wouldn’t be fair. George deserved to see John just as much as Paul did, but…

In a very irritating way, Paul thought that George didn’t deserve it.

Immediately, he stopped himself. Of course Geo deserved it. He was as much of John’s friend as everybody else was. But Paul kept thinking back to his stupid book...the autobiography about his career that didn’t even include John at all. If he didn’t care about John enough to put him in his book, then why would he even care now? 

“Yeah, I do want to see ‘im, actually…” George replied, fiddling with a button on his jacket. He looked almost as nervous as Paul had been, but he was definitely intent on seeing John. 

“Alright.” Ringo nodded. “D’you wanna come with us, Paul?”

Paul shrugged. “I guess so.” he said, climbing out of bed and glancing at George. To his dismay, George was looking right back at him. He forced himself to smile. George, luckily, grinned back.

The hospital was as nerve-wracking as usual. The crowds in front of the doors had thinned out a little, but new people were flocking over every day. Paul didn’t understand it...what were they doing? Just standing there? Protesting? But there was nothing to protest.

As the elevator doors sullenly opened, Paul stared down the hallway. Yoko was standing with a doctor near John’s room, holding Sean’s small hand in hers. She looked a little bit happier than yesterday; at least the shine and sparkle was back in her eyes.

Paul was excited to see that, so he rushed down the hallway to get to her, George and Ringo following behind. Sean tugged at Yoko’s hand, and she turned around to see them. She smiled and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Paul, Ringo! Oh, and...hello, George.”

“‘Ello, Yoko.” George said. Even though George had hated her more than everyone else, he still managed to smile. “‘Ow are you?”

“Fine, fine,” Yoko took in a deep breath with a smile. “Are you here to see John?”

“Yeah, George wanted to.” Ringo glanced at John’s door. “You look happy.”

Yoko shrugged. “Well, the doctor said John is waking up soon.” she explained. “Probably tomorrow at the latest. I’m just...so happy that he’ll be alright…”

Paul wanted to explode with happiness. “That’s great!” he smiled. He didn’t really think about it, but he reached forward to hug Yoko again, and she gladly returned it with a small laugh. Sean giggled and reached up, Yoko grabbing him and balancing him on her hip. “Hello, Sean.”

“Hello, Paul,” the boy whispered with a shy grin. 

“Well, you probably want to go in now.” Yoko said, pulling back from Paul’s hug. “I’ll see you three later.”

“See ya, Yoko,” Ringo waved as she disappeared down the hallway. Paul turned to the door, and took a deep breath. He could handle this. He’d seen John before, and besides, he was waking up soon.

Gently, he turned the doorknob and pushed open the door.

He hadn’t expected anything different, but seeing John brought tears again. It wasn’t a full breakdown, but Paul had to spend some time considerably wiping his eyes before he composed himself. Sitting down in the chair, he glanced over at George, who was staring at John with a blank expression. He looked lost in thought as he gazed, like he was remembering something that had happened long ago. And just like that, Paul was slipping into a memory again.

It was during the Help! sessions, and they were nearly done working on the album. Paul was madly excited for it to be released, but John had said multiple times during the day that he wasn’t feeling very well. He looked fine, but Paul knew that looks could be deceiving.

At about noon, John got up from his spot at the piano to go to the bathroom. They’d just had a rather large lunch, so Paul could understand. He went back to telling George Martin how he’d like the song to be tracked, but it was hard to focus as the time John was in the bathroom grew and grew. When George Martin went up to the sound booth, Paul excused himself to check on John.

He gently pushed open the bathroom door. “John? You alright? You’ve been in here for nearly half an hour…” He scanned the room until he saw John leaning over the sink, staring into the mirror with his hands pressed onto the edges of the sink-bowl. “What’s wrong?”

John jumped and turned to look at him, trying to look like nothing had happened, but it was obvious something was wrong. Paul blocked his way out of the bathroom and furrowed his brow. “What’s wrong?” he pressed. “You looked terrified when I walked into the bathroom.”

John narrowed his eyes at Paul. “It’s nothin’. I was just feeling sick, is all.” he replied as a lame excuse, trying to push past his bandmate, but the latter was having none of it.

“That’s stupid. Is there something wrong? I sincerely want to know.” Paul said, staring John down. “You’ve looked depressed the past couple days, and I care about you, so…” He knew John didn’t like to be mushy, but he didn’t care at this point. He wanted to know what was up.

John sighed, glaring at the floor. “Paul…” he muttered, “d’you think I’m fat?”

Paul wanted to laugh. John Lennon? Fat? No way. Maybe he was a little heavier than the rest, but that was just part of life. “No…” Paul said, trying to discern if John was joking or not. “You’re just the same as all of us.”

John glanced up. “No, I’m not! You’ve seen those newspaper articles…” he sighed. “John Lennon: the fat Beatle. That’s what they’re saying! They don’t call you fat, or Geo, or Ritchie! Face it, Paul, I’m way too overweight.” He went over to the sink and stared at his reflection again, his chest heaving with anxiety. 

Paul softly shut the door and went over to the sink. He put his hand on John’s, and to his relief, the other man didn’t flinch away. “John Lennon,” he whispered, staring into the mirror, “you are not the fat Beatle. You’re the smart Beatle. You always have been and you always will be. The only thing you need to worry about right now is this bloody album, and we’re on the last song, so that’s grand, isn’t it? Then we’ll be all done, and we’ll be able to take a break for a little bit. And you’ll still be the smart Beatle, no matter what happens.”

John stared at Paul, a thin layer of tears over his eyes. Without warning, he lurched into Paul, hugging him so tight Paul thought he might explode. Paul heaved a breath and returned the hug. “What would I ever do without you, Paul?” John asked with a little laugh.

“Probably get killed,” Paul jokingly replied. John nearly cackled as they went out of the bathroom to go finish that ‘bloody album.’

Paul slipped back into reality again, his last words echoing in his head: probably get killed. In a way, he was right, but it didn’t feel so funny now. He dug his hand into his pocket to make sure his song was still inside, and luckily it hadn’t fallen out yet. 

Yoko quietly pushed her way inside, Sean next to her with a scowl. She glanced at George and Ringo. “Sean’s hungry,” she said, almost amused. “I have to sign some paperwork...could one of you three take him to the cafeteria?”

“I could,” Ringo volunteered, George offered to go with them. Paul decided that two babysitters would be enough, so he opted to wait in the hospital room with John. George shut the door behind him as Paul glanced around the room for something to do. His eyes landed on a magazine at the bottom of the bedside table, so he went over and picked it up for a lark. The paper was soft and delicate, and Paul turned the pages gently, skimming the articles. “All of this is fake news, eh, John?” he laughed. “The press is always trying to get their hands on a story, even if it’s so exaggerated it’s unreal.” He rolled his eyes. “They always did that with us, didn’t they?”

He sighed and put the magazine down, running a hand through his hair. He leaned back in his chair to take a rest. Before closing his eyes, he turned to look at John, only to see the man staring back at him.

“Yeah, they did.”


	5. Chapter 5

Paul froze, his heart beginning to hammer in his chest. He hadn’t expected...that. He blinked a few times, trying to make sure this was real. Paul swallowed, his throat feeling very dry all of the sudden. “J-John?” he croaked.

“Paul?” John said, his voice as graveley as Paul’s. His hazel eyes were round and bright. 

Paul’s vision suddenly grew blurry, and he wiped tears away. “Oh my god…” he whispered, trying to keep himself from crying right on the spot. John hadn’t taken his eyes off of him forever. “John...are you…”

“Okay? Probably not.” John shook his head with a grin. 

“John,” Paul laughed, getting out his chair and hurrying over. John reached out with his good arm to hug him, and pulled him close. Paul returned the hug, avoiding John’s injured shoulder. “You’re alive.”

John nodded, and Paul pulled back. Even though he still looked awful, he was a little bit brighter. “You were here for me,” he grinned. “Even though…”

He couldn’t finish his sentence, because Yoko had pushed her way inside after hearing their voices. Her eyes lit up with joy and she rushed over to John, Paul scooting back so she could hug him. They shared a long hug and a kiss before Yoko hurried out to get a doctor. The spring in her step had returned.

Paul pulled the chair over to John’s bed, staring at his old friend. He was so happy for him to be alive he couldn’t even describe it. Now he never wanted to leave John again, even if there was a thousand reasons he should go home. He put his hand on John’s and smiled, moving his figners gently over each vein. “How do you feel?”

“Little groggy, but otherwise right as rain,” John said sarcastically. “I got bloody shot, Paul, how d’you think I’m gonna feel?”

Paul didn’t know if he was meant to be hurt by that comment or to laugh. “Oh. Sorry,” he said, guessing the former. 

John’s gaze softened. “No, ‘s my fault.” he whispered. Paul was startled. John had never been so quick to admit his own faults before. And as Yoko came back in with a doctor and Paul moved back to let them closer, he found himself immersed in another, more raw and vivid than the last. 

It was probably one of the last days of the Beatles, and everyone was feeling pretty pissed and frustrated with each other. Paul knew it was going to be a bitter breakup in a few weeks－but just as long as he was away from the other three he didn’t care how it went down. He’d stepped outside to have a smoke and clear his head, and soon John stepped out as well, scowling in anger.

“What happened?” Paul asked as he took the cigarette out of his mouth. 

John didn’t reply, just giving him a cold stare. “What did I do?” Paul asked dryly, narrowing his eyes. “‘S always my fault, isn’t it?” 

John’s gaze snapped over to him. “Yeah, it is your fault,” he growled. “Ever since you sued all three of us we’re in the hole however bloody much you want from us.” His hazel eyes burned with fury. “We’re just trying to break up this stupid band but you can’t wait to get all of our money in your greedy hands!”

Paul felt a swell of rich red anger rise in his throat. “I was doing it to help you! Me sueing you lot gives us a good reason to break up the band!” he yelled. “You’re too bloody headstrong to notice it...all you care about is your fame and that idiotic girlfriend of yours!”

“Don’t bring her into this!” John said, raising his voice. “I could say many things about that ditzy Linda. But I’m not going to, because this about you, not her. It’s about you, you blasted imbecile－”

Paul glared at him, hissing a curse as he opened the studio door and slammed it behind him. Chips of paint on the doorframe fell to the floor as Paul made his way swiftly past George, past Ringo, and past Yoko, and out the front studio door and into his car. Bloody ‘ell, John, he thought as he turned the car on and pulled out of the studio lot. You’ll never apologize, will you? He can’t think of any reason that he’s in the wrong…

As Paul blinked his way back into reality, he realized with a sudden shock that John hadn’t－fully－been in the wrong, but nevertheless Paul was the one who had actually sued the whole group. Now what had he done with that money? Absolutely nothing. He glanced at John through the haze of people (George, Ringo, and Sean had come back in) and smiled slowly. If he was going to make the last of this visit wonderful, he needed to apologize to everyone for being such a clutz. The sooner, the better.

“Ouch,” Paul hissed as the doctor gently pulled the back of John’s hospital gown lower. There was the tightest bandage Paul had ever seen wrapping around the shoulder and closer to the lung. “You alright, John?”

John nodded with a smile as Sean jumped on the bed, grinning. “I drew something for you, Daddy!” he announced, putting a slightly battered piece of loose-leaf paper in front of his father. It was a surprisingly neat house, colored neatly in crayons, surrounded by bright flowers and a fence. Sean pointed to three wonky figures in front of the house. “See? That’s me and you and Mommy!”

“Very nice,” John said, picking up the drawing to look at it closer. “Oh, yes, very nice.”

It had been around two days since John had woken up, and now the doctor was very carefully examining his wound. Paul, Yoko, and Sean were watching him with extreme supervision. George and Ringo had left with teary goodbyes the day before. Paul stared at his shoulder as the bandages were extremely gently pulled back to reveal one, jagged, dark pink scar where the bullet had hit. Then, below that, there were two more, long and slender. 

“Looks like they’re healing well,” the doctor murmured, flashing a tiny light on John’s back. “No infection…”

“When do you think I can go home, doc?” John asked, glancing back at him. 

“A week or two,” the doctor replied, shutting the flashlight. “We don’t want to rush anything, Mr. Lennon. Let me tell you, gunshot wounds are not fun when they’re infected. They get red and itchy, and they feel like fire.”

“Well, best not get them infected, then, eh?” John laughed to himself, but it looked like he was having a little bit of a hard time breathing. Paul thought that was to be expected, his lung had been severely injured. “I’ve already had enough trauma to my back…” He had a smirk on his face, but his eyes weren’t focused on anything, and after a while the smile faded. “Hm. Yeah.”

“What’s wrong?” Paul whispered, glancing at Yoko.

John shook his head. “‘S nothing. Just...zoned out for a minute.” He repositioned himself on the bed as the doctor re-tied the bandages and let him rest. He leaned back on his pillow, letting out a sigh. “I’ll keep that picture right here on the bedside, alright, Sean?”

“Okay!” Sean giggled, jumping off the bed. “I’m going to draw you another one!” He raced out the door, Yoko laughing as she followed behind. 

“What’s wrong?” Paul asked again, sitting down in the chair next to the bed. “You looked rightly unsettled when you were talking about that ‘trauma to your back’ thing.”

John shook his head, staring out the window. It was a beautiful December day out, the sky a pale blue with clouds swirling around. “I was just thinkin’ about that night…” he muttered. “It was ‘orrible.” He turned to Paul again. “You should’ve been there.”

Paul dared to chuckle. “I’m sure I’d have passed out from the shock.”

John grinned and stared down at the floor. “Yeh.”

Paul smirked. John had never been the type to talk about the things that scared him. “At least you’re alright now, huh?” he said. “All you have to do now is get better and then you’re home free.”

John nodded slowly and then glanced up at Paul, guilt heavy in his gaze. “I’m really sorry, Paul,” he murmured, his voice dry. “I’ve been a jerk to you for the past ten years...I’m sorry about the breakup, and how I never called you, and I’m really sorry for How Did You Sleep, I was really angry at you…”

Paul felt his throat get hot and tears came. “I don’t blame you,” he whispered. “It’s my fault, not yours. I was the one who sued you in the first place, and if I wanted to call you, then I should have. I’m sorry for insulting Yoko and your career...I never meant to…” Suddenly his voice caught and he took in a watery sniff, a few tears running down his cheeks. 

John obviously couldn’t handle it either, and he began to cry as well. “I guess we’re both in the wrong here, huh?” he said with a shaky smile, wiping his eyes. Paul nodded, trying to pull himself together. “Why don’t we just forget all of it, then?”

Paul agreed. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” He stared at his old friend, his fellow musician, and his brother anymore. “Just as long as I have you back, I’m happy.”

John put his hand on Paul’s. “Me too, old lad. Me too.”


	6. Chapter 6

It was December 8, 1964.

Paul stepped outside the studio late that night, breathing out clouds of frosty air. As he hurried to his car, the first couple flakes of snow began to fall, powdery and white. They fell gently onto his nose and decorated his eyelashes. Feeling the familiar joy-like excitement he’d have when he was a little kid, Paul stretched his arms upward to embrace the snow.

“‘Ey, Paulie!”

Paul whirled around to get a face-full of snow. Coughing, he rubbed the bitter ice from his face. “John!” he cried in mock-anger, balling up a sub-par snowball to hurl at him. John screamed and turned around as the snowball exploded on his back. 

“That’s what you get for throwing one at me,” Paul teased as he dusted the white powder off of John’s jacket. “Ever heard of the golden rule, Johnny?” He grinned as John stuck his tongue out like a stubborn child.

“‘Course I have,” John replied, sitting on the studio steps with Paul next to him. “But based on the events of my life, I don’t really pay much attention to it anymore.”

Paul laughed, trying to warm up his frigid hands by shoving them in John’s pockets. The latter returned the gesture, so now two lads were sitting on the steps of Abbey Road studios, hands in each other’s pockets as they watched the snow fall gently in front of them, like a dream.

It had always been like a dream, hadn’t it? Sometimes things happen that make you so happy you want to pinch yourself just to make sure it’s not over yet. And then, otherwise, sometimes life turns its back on you and lets you crack and crumble under its pressure as it watches. Paul’s whole life had worked out just like a dream. It was good at times－absolutely wonderful, to be exact－and other times, it scared him so bad he wanted to jerk away from his own nightmare. But like those nights, sitting on the steps and leaning into each other and laughing, it was a happy medium between both. And if Paul had never met John, what would life be like then? He’d be stuck in some boring day job with a boring wife and bratty kids. He wouldn’t have found his talents or his hobbies at all, maybe. The two were each other’s saviors, and at the same time, each other’s nuisances. But somehow, Paul knew that they were both each other’s best friends. They’d either lift each other up or smash each other down, just like in the beginning and then the breakup. So...if you thought about it…it really was John’s fault.


End file.
